


In Some Sad Way I Already Know

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [19]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Healing, Angst, Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Historical, Plague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 16:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Let’s just say that, had Aziraphale not had access to the Official Rulebook, he would’ve thought it was the end of the world.But no, it seemed as if the 14th century was simply terrible, even without Divine or Infernal Intervention.





	In Some Sad Way I Already Know

**Author's Note:**

> This is sad and I'm not happy with the ending bUt here it is

Once upon a time, when the Earth was so young it still had that _ fresh-out-of-the-dryer _creation smell to it, God looked down upon the world She had created and decided that, actually, it wasn’t very good at all, and proceeded to destroy the inhabitants of an entire civilization.

She apologised, of course. Even put a colourful little semicircle up in the sky as her way of pinkie-promising to never pull that sort of stunt again.

At least, that’s what Aziraphale had _ thought _ the rain-bow had meant.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Now…

Well, let’s just say that, had Aziraphale not had access to the Official Rulebook, he would’ve thought it was the end of the world.

There’d been the Famine, and the War, not to mention the Pestilence and the _ Death _.

But there’d been no word from Upper Management about any upcoming Armegeddon preparations, and, possibly even _ more _ crucial, no word from _ Crowley _ about any particularly evil babies.

No, it seemed as if the 14th century was simply terrible, even without Divine or Infernal Intervention.

The angel blinked rapidly, willing away the pinpricks of moisture in the corners of his eyes.

“Hold on, my dear,” he murmured as he wiped a cool, damp rag across the young girl’s feverish, blackening skin. “Shhh, it’ll be alright.”

“Wan’ my mummy,” the girl said between hoarse, ragged coughs.

Aziraphale blinked more rapidly. “I know, dear one,” he replied, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

He feared she would be seeing her mother again soon.

Contrary to popular belief, angels were not all-powerful. They could heal broken bones, a few minor illnesses, but they didn’t have the power to bring someone back from the brink of Death, especially not ones who had been designed to _ protect _ , to _ guard _ , to _ fight _. 

Still, Aziraphale did what he could.

In this instance, _ what he could _ meant using his angelic immunization to tend to the sick. He sat by their bedsides, held their hands and sick buckets, wiped their heated skin with rags, and when the time came, (it _ always came _, despite everything Aziraphale tried, despite all his best efforts, despite how much he begged and pleaded with Her, the time always came) he read them their rites and blessed them on their way.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come,” Aziraphale tried to say, but his voice broke over the word. He cleared his throat. “Come in,” he called.

The man wore the black robe, wide-brimmed hat, and beaked mask of a doctor, and Aziraphale almost tripped over himself in his haste to reach the man.

“Oh, thank _ Heaven _ ,” he said, wringing his hands together. “Do you—she’s ill, you see, is there anything you—can you—she’s already lost her mother and I—help her. _ Please _.”

“What’s her name?” the doctor asked. He sounded oddly familiar, but his voice was muffled by his mask and Aziraphale couldn’t quite place it.

“Imogen,” Aziraphale said, looking over at the girl, whose shoulders were covered in boils and mouth was edged with blood.

“And your relation?”

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth a few times. “What does it matter?” he finally snapped. “Can you help her or not?”

The doctor was silent for a moment, and Aziraphale wished he could see the man’s face, if only for a clue as to what he was thinking.

“Care for her, do you?” he said after a moment.

Aziraphale felt a few tears slip down his cheeks against his will. “_ Yes _ ,” he said. “I— _ please _ , if this is about the matter of payment, I assure you, I will pay whatever cost, just— _ help her _.”

“It’d take a miracle, angel,” the doctor said. “Surely you of all people know that.”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped as the doctor removed his hood.

“Crowley!” he said, hands reaching out as if to touch the demon before he remembered himself and lowered them to his sides, his fingers toying with the hem of his tunic. “What are—what is this?”

“What does it look like, angel?” Crowley spat, tossing the hood aside. He wore no glasses, and there was no white visible in his eyes. He was gaunt, his usual jagged edges all the more pronounced. He seemed to be made of sharp angles, lean and sallow as a corpse.

His eyes were haunted, but the rest of him seemed…

Frail.

“Oh, Crowley, please tell me this isn’t—it can’t possibly be—do say it’s not—”

“You think I had a hand in any of this?” the demon hissed, eyes narrowing. He quickly slipped off his gloves and sat at Imogen’s side. “Last I checked, it was your side that was more likely to go about slaughtering entire towns. Or was Sodom and Gomorrah just a smear campaign?”

“Now isn’t the time,” Aziraphale muttered. He turned to where Imogen was lying, asleep. Thank the Almighty, she was just asleep.

Crowley had taken one of her blackened hands in his own and had closed his eyes.

If Aziraphale didn’t know otherwise, he would’ve said the demon looked as if he was praying.

The angel’s breath caught in his throat as, slowly, the girl’s hands began to regain their colour, the black fading into a ruddy pink.

“What are you—”

“Quiet, angel,” Crowley interrupted. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his mouth was twisted into a sneer. “Takes more concentration, now. Don’t want to make it worse.”

Aziraphale watched with wide eyes as the clear, healthy skin traveled upward, over her arms, her chest, her neck, spreading, though the angel couldn’t see it, across her torso, her legs and feet.

He watched as her breathing evened, her cheeks filled out, the sweat disappeared from her brow.

Soon enough, Imogen lay before him without a spot of sickness to her.

“What—_ how _?” the angel asked, turning towards Crowley with a look of wonder in his eyes.

“Funny thing about falling,” the demon said, slowly replacing his gloves. “Doesn’t really change _ you _ so much as your home address.”

“So you—you could—you were—”

There had only been one angel that Aziraphale knew of, only one that had the sort of power to snatch a soul back from Death. One that had disappeared in the final days of the First Great War, whether from destruction or from something Else, no one ever knew.

And now—now—

“Doesn’t matter much anymore, now does it?” Crowley asked, pulling the hood back down over his eyes. “See you around, angel.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Aziraphale to sit beside the now-healthy girl’s side in shock and awe as to what he'd learned.

The Serpent of Eden.

The Archangel Raphael.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about the sad hahaha


End file.
